His blind spot
by raggedymanandtheponds
Summary: Molly loves playing pretend; to act as if she's no more than a shy pathologist, that the great Sherlock Holmes made her tremble at just one glance. They all believed the facade, never suspecting she was the one causing all the trouble, not the Jim Moriarty she placed in front of the cameras. Her real name was Molly Moriarty, the murderous sociopath.


They always spoke of his eyes. They said with those beautiful ever-changing eyes, he saw it all. That with a single glance he knew your entire life story and what had yet to occur. That it was as if he was a telepath, digging through your brain with those graceful violinist fingers to expose what no one could ever know.

Yet , when he looked at Molly , he only saw what she wanted him to see and nothing more. To her, he wasn't clever at all, just very observant of the simple minded, and Molly Moriarty was far from simple. She couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the way she licked her lips when she cut open her corpses, the way her pupils would dilate at the sight of their organs. Most of all, she couldn't believe how daft he was not to notice the many missing organs there were in the morgue that he hadn't taken home himself.

It amused her that he was so blind, yet so arrogant, believing himself a genius and above everyone else. Just the way he held himself, with his rigid back, narrowed eyes with that prominent furrowed brow, and his lips, _god_ those beautiful cupids bow lip she just couldn't wait to cut from his face...all showed his arrogance.

She loved it though, pretending he impressed her so much she was jaw-dropped when he passed her at Barts, that she fancied him and was _aroused_ just at the mere sound of his name. It was such a fun game to play, stringing him up with all her other puppets. How Molly loved her puppets, and how she loved making them all dance so beautifully for her without even knowing.

Today had been a rather good day for her and her puppets. Molly had just given Richard Brook's enough money to break into all the proper places to get Sherlock's and DI Lestrade's attention, she had gotten away with a good liver from a car crash victim, and lastly, she had fully gained Sherlock's trust.

He was so naive, taking in her stupid story about a dead father so similar to himself, of how she never counted in his life. He just loved it when she bated her big brown eyes at him, making him believe he was so great and important, when so many believed he was a freak.

He wasn't a freak to Molly, no, no he was quite ordinary, but he intrigued her, and not many were able to do that. Her own parents had to go because they had been so dull, so when a man like Sherlock Holmes saunters past her, she just doesn't let him get away.

Molly was just about to leave Barts to go to her flat, happy thoughts filling her head about what the new day would bring, when her favorite puppet stopped her.

"What do you need? " she whispers, though she already knows.

He looks into her eyes, his own fully dilated and red from lack of sleep, and Molly cannot help but fill with pride. He was so _stupid_. He fancied her; trusted her _and_ fancied her. This is so easy, she thought, looking up into his eyes with so much anticipation as to what he was going to say.

"You."

Molly bites her lip, shaking her head. This is so lovely, she sang in her head, first the liver, now this!

She couldn't imagine how her life could get any better. She had the great Sherlock Holmes before her, weary eyed and trembling, all because of her, but still he was depending on her. She was his last chance, the only way he was going to survive this, or so he thought.

Molly should say something, something mousy and awkward. "What about John?" She mumbles, "He's a doctor, he can do whatever I can do, perhaps an even better job of it."

"No, Molly, I need you," his voice was so hoarse, so meek, not at all like the deep bravado he usually spoke in.

Interesting, Molly thought, scanning Sherlock.

His shoulders looked labored, as if all this was too much for him to bare. His eyes, once used for scanning clues and faults, were shadowed with doubt and sorrow, staring down at his black loafers as if they were all that mattered. But what interested Molly the most were his lips. He had been biting the bottom one, so hard it had been bleeding, littered now with small flacks of dried brown blood.

Nonetheless she could tell.

She had noticed a while back he only bit his lip that way when he was longing for cocaine or crack. He used it as a way to try and distract himself from his urges, but by the looks of it, it was failing.

The fall of the great Sherlock Holmes, Molly mused, turning away from the detective to fiddle with a closet door.

They were so close to the climax of her puppet show, and yet he was no where near to uncovering the truth.


End file.
